


Tending To It

by Kahvi



Category: Die Hard (Movies), Fake News RPF, Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Jon Stewart never made it out of his bartending job, John McClane walks into his bar. Things... happen. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Before I watched Die Hard 4.0, Roadstergal had told me about the chemistry between Jon Stewart and Bruce Willis when the latter was a guest on TDS. Concequently, I kept imagining Jon as McClane's sidekick. This is not that story, but it is Jon Stewart/John McClane. Crackfic, but a lot more realistic than I'd anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tending To It

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: In the case of Jon Stewart, this is utter fiction based on his public persona, and an extrapolation of what it might have become in an alternate universe. It has nothing to do with the man himself, as his life is none of my business. And in case you were wondering, I don't own the Die Hard franchise either. 
> 
> Thanks to Roadstergal for her beta and encouragement!

"Go on, get out of here!" I thought I had hit just the right balance between playful, understanding best-buddy like and paternally forceful, I really did. From the look on Lucy's face, however, I'd blown it.

"For fuck's sake, dad..."

"Hey, hey, hey," I interrupted, but did she listen? No, instead she rolled her eyes, and pulled on her boyfriend's arm. The boyfriend in question gave me a half apologetic, half scared out of his wits look, and swallowed.

"Mister McClane," he began, but I waved a hand.

"Don't worry, kid. If I didn't want you hanging around my daughter, you'd be dead by now."

No prizes for guessing the look Lucy gave me after that one. I shoulda known better. But hey, she's my kid. It's not about logic. It's about guts. And mine has a life of its own, ya know? That's the reason I end up in the kind of shit I end up in all the time. One of the reasons, anyway. And maybe not all the time. Try once or twice. Three times. Maybe four.

I watched Lucy and Matt leave, thinking about all the different ways I could have killed that little punk when I had the chance, and because I like to torture myself, some of the stupider reasons why I hadn't. I was busy beating myself up when suddenly there was a drink by my elbow. I snorted, picked it up, and turned, expecting to see some mini-skirted young thing with more alcohol in her system than sense. For some reason, don't ask me why, I attract my share of drunk chicks. I guess they see me through the haze of too many vodkas-and-whatever-it-is kids mix it with these days, and in the poor bar-room lighting, I look just big and strong enough for a nice screw, and just nice enough not to screw them over. Sometimes, they sober up in time, and realize they're trying to make it with a guy three times their age. And sometimes, if I'm drunk enough, I take 'em home with me just before they reach that point. I try not to get that drunk.

Turns out there was no one behind me. I glanced at the bartender, and he shrugged. I looked at my drink, and saw him grinning out of the corner of my eye. It's good to know I still have some peripheral vision. Eh, the worst thing it could do was kill me. I downed it, hoping it was scotch. It was. Pretty decent scotch too. I licked my lips.

"You're welcome." The voice behind me was loud and clear enough to cut through the white noise of chatter and music in the background, but it wasn't shrill, and the diction was clear. There's only one way to pick up that skill. The bartender was still grinning when I looked his way. It wasn't an ugly kind of grin; there was an edge to it, but it was friendly. Truth be told, he was the nicest looking thing in the joint, and that was saying more about the joint than it was about him. There was a reason I didn't want Lucy or that too good looking punk of hers hanging around in here.

I started playing with the glass, juggling it, knowing he wouldn't like it. I don't know why, but I felt like setting the guy on edge a little. I guess because he was setting me on edge. There was something about him; I dunno what. Call it a cop's instinct.

He studied me with his eyes. "Ther e's more of that if you want it, you know."

"So tell me," I said, setting the glass back down on the counter a little too hard for his comfort, "are you some kind of queer?"

To his credit, his grin didn't falter. "What?"

"Well, the way I heard it, when a bartender starts giving people free drinks, it's because he wants to sleep with 'em."

The bartender giggled. It wasn't a sound I'd expected to hear, so I kind of laughed along with it. "What if I was?"

I shrugged. "You tell me. After you give me another."

He raised his eyebrows. "So you do want to sleep with me."

Funny guy. He didn't look queer. By 'looking queer' I don't mean pink shirts, blow dried hair, limp wrists and all that bullshit; I mean the way a cop can tell. Well, I can't speak for other people, but I always could. It's that trained observer thing. You notice stuff other people don't. Anyway, this guy didn't fit the bill. Made me wonder what his game was. "I didn't say that."

"Fair enough, man." He gave a wry smile. Either he was in a melancholy mood, or he just had a face that looked that way. Some people do. "Anyway, I wasn't trying to pick you up. You just looked like you needed a drink, and I didn't think you were going to buy one."

"How would you know?"

He shrugged. "I'm a bartender. I notice stuff other people don't."

"You do, huh?" I fondled my glass meaningfully. "Were you serious about that second drink, or were you just teasing?"

Laughing, he poured me another. I glanced at the bottle. It was good scotch. I gave a toast and downed it in one go, and damn if that didn't hit just the right spot. I had no idea why the hell I was doing it, but I had a feeling I was going to get shitfaced that night. Coming out of hospital to an empty apartment full of overdue bills will do that to ya. I'd had too much time to think in that hospital bed. Way too much time. I put the glass down, and because I was starting to feel weird about this, dumped a couple of twenties that should have gone towards making rent on the counter.

"That oughta hold me for a while," I explained, when those eyebrows rose again. The bartender didn't argue, just took 'em in and refilled my glass, leaving the bottle. I followed him with my eyes while he served a couple of others, snorting into my scotch. Yeah, I'd had way too much time to think. I'd thought about Matt, and how stupidly young he was, and all the mind-blowingly dumb things he did. And what it had felt like, sitting next to him, all broken and beaten up; the way he almost radiated energy... The kid had stirred something in me, and I didn't like it. Not one bit. Well, OK, I did like it; that was the problem. And now there was this guy... walking back over, that edgy grin plastered back on.

"Hey, wait a minute," he s aid, shaking his finger at me, "I know you! You're John McClane!" He beamed, looking like a dog who'd just preformed a special trick.

"Yeah, what's it to you?"

"Man!" He laughed, slapping the counter, leaning over eagerly, like some over-grown puppy. "You are all kinds of awesome!"

Shit. This always happens after I do my stupid cowboy thing. I hate that back-slapping 'atta-boy' crap, even the chicks it gets me. When I was married I couldn't take advantage of it, and now the girls look at me like I'm their dad, and that sort of thing's not really my scene. "Yeah? Is that why you got me the drink?"

He shook his head. "No, I didn't realize until just now. I knew I'd seen you somewhere."

"Saw me on TV, huh?"

"Don't watch a lot of TV, if I can avoid it. Prime time is bad enough, but with the hours I'm working, my viewing choices are mostly Doctor Phil re-runs and infomercials. And porn," he added, pausing to give some overgrown biker type a beer, "which I'll admit I don't mind as  
much."

"The news is on 24 hours these days." It was kind of fascinating to see him work; handing out drinks in between sentences like it was breathing. No effort involved.

He put a used glass away and snorted. "Oh man, don't get me started on that... did you ever wonder how they find enough news to fill 24 hours? They don't. They just fill it in with 80% car chases, cats playing the piano and updates on Jennifer Lopez's ass."

Well, I had to laugh at that. "I'm pretty sure there's an hour or two of actual news in there too."

"Actual news? Oh, wait; you mean fear-mongering, propaganda-fueled skewed bullshit? Yeah, there's some of that too."

Christ, I thought to myself, not another one. I just realized who it was he reminded me of. What was it with that kid? What was he doing in my head all the time? This guy though... I wanted to call him a kid; he had the attitude for it, but kids don't have iron grey hair, or eyes quite that cynical. "You sound just like..." I hesitated, because the idea still hurt in ways I didn't want to analyze all that closely, "my daughter's boyfriend. Just with a little less of that rage-against-the-system thing going on."

He nodded towards the door. "Was that the guy you just booted out of here?"

I poured myself another drink, wowing not to down this one in one go. I was already starting to feel the other two. Three. Whatever. "Yeah."

"Early twenties, something like that?"

"Yeah."

"That's an angry age, my friend." He smiled, as though nostalgic for it. I bet he could still remember his twenties. "I used to be like that. Thought I could change the world if I just kept shouting at it long enough. 'Course, I also used to actually fit into these jeans. And I had jet black hair. 'Like the wings of a raven,'" he ended in a singsong voice, giggling to himself.

"I used to have hair," I grumbled, but amused despite myself. Maybe that was the booze, I dunno.

"Eh, who needs hair. Chicks dig that look." He nodded at my head.

I still didn't know what his game was, but the booze was making me not care. It hadn't numbed me to the point where the way this conversation was headed didn't bother me, though. I pointed at him with my scotch. "So how come you'd heard about me if you don't watch the news?"

"Oh, I watch the news.” He threw an empty glass into the air, letting it spin a couple of times before catching it expertly. “I mean, I really shouldn't. Does my brain no good, but I can't not, you know? Because not watching it won't change the fact that it's on, and you gotta know what's wrong with the world if you want to have a hope of changing it.”

What could I say to that? Mockery came easiest, so I went for that. “And you're gonna change the world, is that it?”

His eyes flicked away for a moment, then caught mine. He looked like a man who'd lost something, but wasn't quite sure what. “No. Not anymore.” He scratched his nose, coughed a few times, then looked happier. Anyway, I didn't see ya on the news. I've been following you on the internet." He wandered off for a bit, serving two skimpy-topped blondes who were obviously flirting with him. He flirted back, and I quirked a smile. No, definitly not gay, this one. "You've got quite a following there, you know," he added, coming back.

"A following? What, like a cult?"

He giggled. "More like a blog or two. Some people linked to them on mine, and I got interested. You're quite a guy." He must have seen the look of my face, because he started explaining, thinking I was interested. I wasn't. "A blog - like a website. You know? It's this thing I do..."

"Yeah, I know what a website is," I grimaced. "I'm fifty, not eighty five." I was probably giving off a 'fuck off' vibe, because he shrugged, and left me alone. I sighed, sipping at my drink. I didn't want it anymore. I didn't want to end up in bed with some random girl who thought I was something I'm not. But as it turned out, I didn't want to leave either.

I ended up sitting there for the better part of an hour, watching this guy work. He was in with at least one of those blondes he'd served earlier, and I made a little bet with myself on which one of them he'd end up taking home by the end of his shift. I caught the tail end of some conversations with some regulars. Turns out his name was John, which should have been funny, but I didn't think it was, and he seemed to have an opinion about everything. After listening to him for a while, I started to get one too. Eventually, I caught his eye, and he came back over. "You didn't finish the bottle," he said, far more gently than any bartender I've ever met would have said it.

I looked at him, noting the concern in those cynical eyes, and shook my head. "What are you doing here? You're smart, you've got that..." I gestured, trying to get across a concept I'd only read about once or twice, "blog thing, you're witty, you're good with people..." I managed to stop before I started to sound like I wanted to suck his dick. Maybe I hadn't quite stopped in time, because he looked a little bothered.

"Eh, I'm nobody. I used to do stand up, but it wasn't going anywhere. I wish you'd asked if I was some kind of comedian, because you see what I could have done with that, there?" He was trying for witty, but there was a sadness to him, like a man who just didn't care anymore. Well, I could relate to that. I started to reply, but he was gone, flirting with those lusty blondes again. Good for him, I thought, sliding off my chair and heading to the men's room.

My head felt pretty much like you'd expect after that many drinks in that short an order, and I shook it, looking at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. Yeah, well, I thought, there you go. Old man, that's what you are. Now act your age and go home. I slapped some water on my face and turned to leave, bumping hard into a guy in a leather jacket that was coming in. Shit, I thought, steeling myself for a chewing out, or even a fight, but the blue eyes that looked up at me were smiling, and belonged to John the bartender.

"We gotta stop meeting this way," he whispered, grinning like a maniac. I huffed a short laugh, my chin rubbing against the side of his face as we tried to sort ourselves out. There were a few embarrassed 'excuse me's and half a dozen 'sorry's, and then he was in and I was out. It was early evening still. I looked towards the bar where a tired looking red-head was pouring drinks without much enthusiasm. John must just be getting off his shift. I pondered that fact for a while, leaning against the wall outside the men's room. Then I shoved my hands into my pockets, and headed towards the door.

I don't know why I waited around for him outside, but I did. John didn't look at all surprised when he saw me, just quirked one side of his mouth up in a half-smile, and started walking. He didn't ask me to follow, but I did.

He lived just three blocks away, in a building that looked much better than the area surrounding it. I stood on the stairs behind him as he fiddled with his apartment keys, thinking about nothing in particular. I was drunk, but not drunk enough to blame what I was doing on it. Just comfortably numb, as the song goes. Neither of us had spoken a word on the way over, and when the door slammed behind me, neither of us bothered.

He came at me, hard, pushing me up against the door. Guy was about half my size, and not very muscular, but the force behind it made me gasp, and not resist when he tried to kiss me. He got the hint when I closed my mouth though; I wasn't into that. Hell, I wasn't sure what I was into right now, but that just felt wrong. Once I got a grip, I ripped his belt off, unzipping him and feeling between his legs. I was running on pure instinct, sucking at his chin and rubbing his crotch, ramming ahead and slamming him up against the wall on the other side of the room. He groaned and thrust at my hand, so I tore his boxers off too.

John's cock felt warm and slick in my hands, but I wasn't really thinking too much about it. I just jerked him off, looking at his face as it contorted into odd displays of pleasure. There was a little pain in there too. He didn't seem to mind though, so neither did I. After a while, he pushed me away, grabbing my shirt. He tried to pull me towards what was obviously the bedroom, and I didn't feel like resisting. He kicked his shoes and jeans off as he walked, and once inside, fell down on the bed, pulling me on top.

Feeling a little out of place, I watched as he fumbled open a drawer, reaching in. He still had a hold of my shirt, and now he pulled me even closer, speaking right into my ear. "I want you to fuck me," he breathed, pushing something into my hand. I tore myself away so I had room to look at it. It was a little bottle of something - lube, I guessed. I blinked, then pulled my head back and laughed. Even if I hadn't wanted to do this, my dick did, and he always gets the last vote, the bastard.

Being inside him was odd. It was good and all, and god knows I needed it almost as bad as he sounded like he did, but he wasn't a woman, and you could tell. Don't laugh! I can't think of another way to describe it. John clawed at me, gritting his teeth and pushing up against me. I was huffing like a steam train, trying to keep from coming right away. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before, and no wonder, I suppose. Maybe that's why leaned down and kissed him. He loved that, thrusting his tongue down my throat like he was trying to find gold down there. It was good though. It was all good. When I came, which was a good long while later, so did he, and I hadn't even touched his dick since I stopped jerking it. Go figure.

None of us fell asleep afterwards, and I didn't know what to say, so I figured I might as well leave. But it was like the bar all over again; I didn't want to. John just lay there watching me, like he was expecting something. When nothing happened, he went to the bathroom, and I put my clothes back on properly. When he came back, he was naked, looking like he was trying to hide behind himself. I couldn't see why; not that I'm the best to judge, but he looked a fair sight better than what I see in the mirror when I get out of the shower every morning. I sat there on the bed, not knowing what to do. We looked at one another, and then John giggled.

"Name's Jon," he said.

"Yeah," I said, "I know."

"Without an 'h'. Did you know that?"

"No." I smiled. "I didn't."

"You wanna stay?"

I mulled this over. I thought about Matt, and the empty apartment, and the mound of bills on my kitchen table. I thought of Jon without an 'h', and an eager tongue in my mouth. I thought about scotch, and the fear-mongering media. "Yeah," I said. "I think I do."


End file.
